For a moment or two the Sergeant scanned the faces of the two men, a lazy, tolerant smile playing over his hard features as he fumbled inside the breast of his stable-jacket.
“Oh, he cain’t, cain’t he?” he drawled mockingly. “No, but I can, my strawberry blonde. Here’s a letter for yu’, Gallagher,” he continued, grinning. “Reckon I’ll let Shorty read it first, though.” And, unfolding the flap of hide, he carelessly held it up for that gentleman’s inspection.
With starting eyes and a ghastly imprecation the prisoner gazed at the missing link, fear, anger, and astonishment flitting in turn over his evil visage.
“Why, why—” he stuttered.
“Yes, why—” Ellis finished for him sarcastically. “Why do yu’ aim to start in chokin’ poor coyotes to death with other people’s brands?”
He handed the sticky piece of evidence over to Gallagher. “Double H.F.,” he said. “That’s yore brand all right, ain’t it, old-timer?”
The rancher nodded wonderingly.
“Yu’ll find it fits into th’ cut-out all hunkadory,” the Sergeant added.
“Satisfied?” he queried presently. “All right, then.” And, in the set formula that the Law prescribes, he proceeded to formally charge and warn his prisoner. This duty ended, he sank down with a lazy yawn and, rolling a fresh cigarette, tossed it good-naturedly over to the captive, with a match along.
“Have a smoke, Shorty,” he observed, with an indolent, meaning smile. “I guess yu’ shore needs one.”